


Carrion Comfort

by celestialskiff



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 11:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>When Sherlock was two and Mycroft was nine, Mycroft realised no one else would be any help, and he would just have to figure out what to do with Sherlock on his own. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Carrion Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Incest, though contains no actual sexual content at all, but does describe a very close relationship between siblings. Also contains references to drug use and (I'm not sure if I need to warn for this, but I'm going to anyway) childish habits continued into adulthood.

When Sherlock was two and Mycroft was nine Mycroft read _Children's Minds_ and _The Science of Parenting_. And then he read _Child Psychology: A Practical Guide_. But he quickly realised they wouldn't be any help, and he would just have to figure out what to do with Sherlock on his own.

*  
The red velvet curtains were full of dust, and they made Mycroft's nose twitch slightly, but he wouldn't change them because he liked the way they made the room so dark and warm. It was early morning, around five, but he hadn't slept yet. He didn't sleep much—they didn't like that at school, but Mummy didn't notice.

He heard Sherlock before he saw him, the faint blunt sound of feet hitting the wooden floorboards and the sigh of the duvet being thrown back onto the bed. Mycroft was sitting in his armchair by the window, reading an economics textbook he'd found at school. He deliberately didn't look up as Sherlock came in, eyes focused on the graph in front of him, though all his attention was really fixed on the boy.

Sherlock pushed the book out of Mycroft's left hand. Mycroft caught it with his right, and looked down at his brother. Sherlock was tall for his seven years, but Mycroft didn't see any other boys Sherlock's age, so he didn't know that. Sherlock seemed very small to him. He inserted himself onto Mycroft's knee without any invitation, nestling comfortably on Mycroft's admittedly ample lap. His tattered security blanket was wound around his right hand, and he slid his left thumb into his mouth. He sighed through his nose and laid his head on Mycroft's chest.

“So you don't even ask now?” Mycroft said. “You just make yourself comfortable.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock said.

“You should say please. Manners are everything,” Mycroft said. He rested his hand on Sherlock's narrow back.

“Not for pirates,” Sherlock said, slurring around his thumb. He rubbed the soft corner of his blanket gently between his fingers.

“You're too old to be a pirate,” Mycroft said. “Did you do the maths problems I set you?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock said. “Too easy. Shut up now. I'm sleepy.”

“I'm not,” Mycroft said.

“Shh,” Sherlock said firmly. Rapidly his body went limp in Mycroft's arms, and he breathed noisily through his nose. His thumb slipped out of his mouth along with a considerable amount of saliva, which soaked through Mycroft's pyjamas. Sitting with Sherlock like this meant holding the text book at a very uncomfortable angle if he wanted to read it, but he didn't move him.

*

The heater broke on the train on his way home for the autumn half-term, and rain streaked across the windows. The house was freezing too when he got in. Mycroft felt like he'd never be warm again. Sherlock, nine now, was sitting at the bottom of the stairs in the hall, wearing an overcoat, thumb firmly in his mouth.

Mycroft took off his coat because it was soaked through. He'd had to walk home from the station because Mummy hadn't come to meet him, and he was glad he'd decided to use this holiday to learn Greek instead of Portuguese. Greek textbooks were much lighter than Portuguese ones because Portuguese ones were full of glossy pictures and Greek ones weren't, and his bag wasn't that heavy, really.

“Why is it so cold?” he said.

Sherlock shrugged. “Mummy didn't pay the heating bill, I suppose.”

“Did she forget?”

Sherlock shrugged again. Clearly this was a boring question. “Did you bring me back anything?” he said.

“Want to learn Greek?”

“I'm more interested in chemistry at the moment,” Sherlock said. “I think I might turn out to be the sort of pirate who blows things up.”

Mummy had forgotten the heating bill, but as it was on direct debit she didn't have to remember: the problem was she'd also forgotten to turn the boiler on. She didn't notice, and Sherlock too didn't seem to notice physical sensations enough to let it bother him. If he got cold he put his coat on. He ate if someone fed him. Mycroft didn't feel like that at all. Within half an hour he'd sorted out the boiler and turned the radiators up as far and they would go and then put the oven on to cook fish fingers, waffles and potato croquettes. They were in the freezer from last time he'd stoked up.

Sherlock was going through Mycroft's bag. His thumb was in his mouth again, and he was pulling out piles of socks and shirts and dropping them on the kitchen floor in the hope they concealed something exciting (and, presumably, preferably explosive). He settled for a textbook on human anatomy Mycroft had brought home with him in mind, and read it sitting cross legged on the floor. Mycroft noticed he was wearing a pair of pyjamas that were a bit too small for him under his overcoat.

“Aren't you a bit old for that now?”

“What?” Sherlock said, examining a diagram of the nephron.

“Sucking your thumb.” Years ago he'd looked up methods to get Sherlock to stop in _The Science of Parenting_. But of course none of them worked on Sherlock.

“Boring,” Sherlock said.

“Don't they tease you about it in school?”

“Boring,” Sherlock said again.

“Do you go to school? Does Mummy remember to make you?”

“Boring.”

“Sherlock Holmes! Answer the question.”

Sherlock sighed hugely. He took the thumb out of his mouth and said, “Mostly I go. If they tease me I steal things from them and then burn them.” He paused. “Or poke them in the eye. I'm mostly the tallest. Can I have a kidney and a microscope?”

“No!” Mycroft said, taking the tray out of the oven. He hoped there was something for afters even if it was only stale chocolate biscuits. He looked back at Sherlock, small and hunched over the text book. “Maybe a kidney,” he said.

*

He borrowed Mummy's credit card and got Sherlock a microscope for Christmas. Sherlock got him some fireworks and a chocolate orange. No one else got either of them anything, but Mummy came out of her study at noon and gave them both fifty pound notes. They spent the morning using the microscope to study various kinds of offal Sherlock had managed to procure from the local butcher and the evening letting off fireworks. In the middle Mummy made them sandwiches out of the different pastes in the Fortnum & Mason hamper their grandfather always sent. Sherlock made faces but Mycroft ate everything he was given. Then Sherlock ruined all the crystallised fruit by pouring it out onto the same chopping board as they'd used to prepare samples of lamb's lungs, and Mummy said they were both impossible and went back into her study.

After the fireworks, smelling smoky, Sherlock got into Mycroft's bed and refused to move, so Mycroft lay down next to him. Sherlock rested his cold feet on Mycroft's thigh and his head on the pillow next to Mycroft's. He was sucking his thumb again and Mycroft could hear the wet sucking noise loudly because Sherlock's mouth was right next to his ear.

“Maybe I shouldn't be a pirate,” Sherlock said, around his thumb.

“Maybe you should stop sucking your thumb,” Mycroft said, and Sherlock sighed impatiently, and Mycroft was sorry because telling Sherlock only made him cross. He wrapped his arm around Sherlock's skinny torso and Sherlock squirmed closer to him. “What do you want to be instead?” Mycroft said.

“Internal organs inspector,” Sherlock said, and went to sleep before Mycroft could think of a suitable response.

*

Insomnia begun to plague Sherlock when he was eleven the way it had Mycroft. Unlike Mycroft, he wasn't the least bit stoical about it: he wandered from room to room complaining and rubbing his eyes until they were red and swollen, and gave up on books after the first sentence and refused to allow himself to be distracted, and made his violin screech, and left chemicals and blood samples all over the house, so you would find them unexpectedly when you were looking for jam. He'd nearly stopped sucking his thumb, too, much to Mycroft's relief, because it was embarrassing to have a brother so clever who still indulged in such a childish habit, but he'd started again, at least as much as before.

He curled up at the bottom of Mycroft's bed, thumb in his mouth, fingers fondling a security blanket worn to rags, toes twitching, eyes huge and intense. He looked, Mycroft thought, more miserable than insomnia had ever made Mycroft feel, and it had made him feel pretty miserable.

“Want me to read to you?” Mycroft said.

Sherlock didn't dignify that with a response.

“We could set something on fire,” Mycroft said, even though, at eighteen, he knew better, and had known better for years.

Sherlock shrugged, listless, and scrambled up the bed so he was lying next to Mycroft instead of down the bottom. He pressed his head against Mycroft's shoulder. “My head isn't working,” he said.

“I know,” Mycroft said.

“I want to go to university next year,” Sherlock said.

“You're eleven,” Mycroft said gently.

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock said. “I was just stating a desire. I didn't say it was _attainable_.”

“Mummy and I thought the new school would be good for you,” Mycroft said. He'd thought it was better not to have Sherlock go to his old school: one Holmes brother was enough for any institution, and, besides, it didn't have big enough chemistry labs to satisfy Sherlock. He'd found somewhere he'd thought would be more suitable.

“You mean you thought it would be good,” Sherlock said. “I know Mummy doesn't care.”

“Caring isn't important, Sherlock,” Mycroft said carefully. “She'll pay for a good school and that's all you need from her. You know that.”

Sherlock pressed his nose against Mycroft's neck. “I have you for everything else.”

“Yes, you know I'll make the best decisions for you,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock groaned. “But even in your infinite wisdom, you can't make me sleep,” he said.

*

Sherlock smelt like cigarettes, had clearly bought himself a new baby blanket, and was in Mycroft's room at his university in the middle of the school term. Mycroft stood in the doorway, looking at his brother, who was sitting at the foot of Mycroft's bed, unable to decide which of these crimes he objected to the most. Sherlock had also clearly picked the lock to get in here, but since he'd done a good job of it, Mycroft wasn't particularly put out by that.

He was sucking his thumb again. The blanket (with price tag still attached) was wrapped around his hand, and he was rubbing one corner of it between his fingers.

“You're too old for—” Mycroft began. “You bought yourself a new— Why are you here?”

Sherlock sighed. He took his thumb out of his mouth and said, “Someone stole my old one. And threw it in the pond. So I stole this one.”

“From a baby?” Mycroft said.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Certainly not. A baby would make it sticky. From a shop. Called Mothercare.”

“Shoplifting,” Mycroft said. “Playing truant. Breaking and entering. You smell like smoke: did you steal those too?”

“Yes, but not from a shop. From the boy who took my blanket. I didn't like the taste much but they did interesting things to my head.”

“Don't start smoking,” Mycroft said, “It's not considered a social lubricant any more. Why are you here?”

“Because I don't like school,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft sighed. “I should have looked through your luggage more carefully. I suppose you showed up with your microscope and your violin and various chemicals and your security blanket and expected everyone to leave you alone so you could get on with your work.”

“What else would I have done?” Sherlock said.

“Tried to be a bit more normal?” Mycroft said. “Come on, Sherlock, you met other children in primary school and you're certainly not stupid. You know the effect you have on people.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “How many sausage rolls have you had today? Are they a social lubricant?”

“Better than anything you do,” Mycroft said.

“When did you last sleep? Your eyes have that funny look. You can't last forever on no sleep, you know.”

“Neither can you,” Mycroft said. “You can't exist on no sleep with the only nutrients you ingest being the ones that adhere to your thumb before you suck it.”

Sherlock spread out across the bed, so suddenly it looked a little like he'd fallen over. He pressed the brand-new blanket against his face, and wriggled his feet in their dusty black school shoes. “Take them off me,” he said.

“Take your shoes off for you?” Mycroft said, a note of complaint in his voice, but he was already doing it before Sherlock could respond.

“Come here,” Sherlock said, looking up at Mycroft. He seemed to take up surprisingly little space on the single bed. Mycroft sighed and then lay down next to him, drawing Sherlock to him. The smoky smell was unfamiliar, but underneath he could smell the familiar, slightly grubby Sherlock scent.

Sherlock squirmed and settled himself against Mycroft, chin pressing uncomfortably into Mycroft's shoulder. Mycroft stroked his fingers through Sherlock's hair, which was cut shorter than usual to conform with his school's regulations. “Is it really hellish there?” Mycroft said softly.

Sherlock nodded against him, chin banging into Mycroft's collarbone.

Mycroft sighed. He wanted to say, “You don't have to go. You can just stay here with me,” but he didn't lie to his brother.

*

Three months later, Sherlock was nearly expelled from the school due to a minor explosion which destroyed a not inconsiderable amount of his classmate's property. He wasn't expelled because, as he explained to Mycroft later, he had convincing evidence that the headmaster regularly slept with boys in their final year, and the headmaster was now tolerant of most of Sherlock's behaviour.

“They're afraid of me now,” Sherlock told Mycroft as Christmas. “I like it when people are afraid of me. Maybe I really should be a pirate.” He'd insinuated himself onto Mycroft's lap as he'd been doing all his life, his skinny arse digging into Mycroft's thigh.

“We're going to join the civil service, you and I,” Mycroft said.

“Boring,” Sherlock said.

“Someone needs to run this country, don't you think?” Mycroft said. He smoothed Sherlock's hair away from his forehead. “Better us than anyone else.”

“I don't want to be in charge, I want to have fun,” Sherlock said. “Being a pirate would be fun.”

“You'd probably get seasick,” Mycroft said.

“Better sick than bored,” Sherlock said. “Anyway, I looked over the files the home secretary gave you. Tedious.”

“Sherlock, I'm in university. The home secretary didn't give me any files,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock laughed. He snuggled closer to Mycroft, resting his head on Mycroft's shoulder. “What would the home secretary say if he knew you cuddled your brother like this?”

“Yes, you are getting a bit old for it, aren't you?” Mycroft said, but he made no move to tip Sherlock off; in fact, if anything, he tugged him a little closer.

The rooms were dusty now they weren't home much to use them. He thought Mummy was probably sleeping in her study since her bedroom seemed unused. She was as indifferent to food as Sherlock, and the kitchen was practically bare. Mycroft vaguely remembered his father making her stews and singing while he cooked in the kitchen. How kind. Still, Mummy had always said Father wasn't really her intellectual equal. Cooking was useful though: Mycroft had been trying to learn.

He'd been getting better at it since starting uni. He'd made spaghetti carbonara on the first day back, which Mummy wouldn't touch, and Sherlock had declared disgusting, but he had thought was rather good. Today he was going to try lasagne. He liked the idea of all the layers.

Sherlock liked to work at kitchen tables. Desks were too small. At one end he had a selection of languages he was learning (Mycroft noted he was only attempting Romance languages: he wasn't as good at learning languages as Mycroft), and the other had an assortment of chemistry experiments, maths textbooks and diagrams of human organs. Mycroft moved around him, grating cheese and frying onions.

“Why are you bothering? You can just get other people to make you food,” Sherlock said.

“People like it if you make them food,” Mycroft said. “It's good to understand what sways people, Sherlock. You should learn to cook too.”

“Boring,” Sherlock said.

“Making people afraid of you won't always work,” Mycroft said. “Besides, what if you want to pursue a romantic relationship?” He'd been meaning to bring this up with Sherlock. Sherlock was getting to that age.

“I won't,” Sherlock said.

“You probably will,” Mycroft said. “I did.”

“I know,” Sherlock said. “I'm not like you.”

“You knew?” Mycroft said. He was surprised. It had been when Sherlock was still very young, as Mycroft had not allowed himself such feelings for a considerable amount of time.

“Yes, your face went all silly, and you kept writing about him in your diary. 'O Gideon, my hands tremble with adoration! My feet tremble with love!',” Sherlock said. He popped his thumb into his mouth and turned over a page in his chemistry text book. It was a university level text book and Mycroft rather regretted giving it to him. Such books could cause considerable damage in Sherlock's hands.

Mycroft stirred the onions. He shouldn't be surprised. “Yes, well,” he said. “Love is dangerous, but romantic relationships may be necessary.”

“For your plans,” Sherlock said. “Not mine.” He didn't bother taking his thumb out of his mouth so his voice was garbled. Mycroft suppressed an urge to jerk it out: it wouldn't help, and a resentful Sherlock was an unusually difficult Sherlock.

He was enjoying the simple task of spreading béchamel sauce over the pasta (it was sort of soothing: was this how ordinary people felt?) when Sherlock said, “A romantic relationship with a man wouldn't help further your career, would it? People are still suspicious of homosexuals. So you can't have Gideon.”

“I know,” Mycroft said. “Gideon was years ago, anyway, Sherlock.”

“You still like him though,” Sherlock said. “You voice moves to a slightly higher register when you talk about him.”

When Mycroft dished up the lasagne Sherlock wouldn't eat any. It was good though, so Mycroft had Sherlock's portion too. Sherlock ate an apple and then some dates that had been in the cupboard for at least a year. He said they were good.

*

It was the early hours of the morning, and he wasn't quite asleep, but he was coming delightfully close to sleep. Hearing someone pick the lock didn't startle him, because he knew from the assured movements and the soft click that it was Sherlock. He heard Sherlock's footsteps coming down the hall, and the door creak open. He lay still, listening to a bag unzipping and the thud of Sherlock's shoes being pulled off. Then he felt the bed dip as Sherlock sat on the edge, and Mycroft budged up to make room for him.

In his fifteenth year, Sherlock had got significantly taller, and Mycroft wasn't used to this sudden length next to him. He wrapped an arm around Sherlock's chest. “Glad you didn't knock,” he said into Sherlock's neck.

“Thought you would be,” Sherlock said, wriggling. “Have you lost more weight? I don't like you loosing weight, it makes me feel unbalanced.”

“I don't like you coming to visit me when you should be in school,” Mycroft said.

“Yes, you do,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft couldn't really argue with that. He slid his arms down Sherlock's body, reacquainting himself with the shape of him. He was wearing polyester school trousers, and a white cotton school shirt. He smelt like trains, cigarettes and soap. His hair was significantly longer than his school allowed. In his left hand he clasped a corner of that awful blanket he'd bought himself. On his left forearm were—

“Sherlock!” Mycroft said, suddenly properly awake, no longer safe and sleepy in the warm cocoon of bedsheets, cradling his precious brother. “What have you been doing?”

Sherlock sighed and sniffed slightly. “Guess.”

Mycroft thought about it. Ran his hand over Sherlock's wrist, and down to his hand. Pressed the pads of his fingers against the pads of Sherlock's. “Intravenous cocaine,” he said. “That's unacceptable.”

“Nevertheless,” Sherlock said.

“Where did you get it?” Mycroft said. “At school?”

“Yes, that's the main benefit of going to an expensive school,” Sherlock said. “Everyone has so much disposable income that there's a wide range of illicit substances on offer.”

Mycroft felt something he hadn't felt in a long time: a sudden, urgent rush of rage. He wasn't sure quite what to do with the feeling. He found he was gripping Sherlock's wrist extremely tightly, fingers pressed flush to tendons. Sherlock didn't complain. “You knew I'd notice,” Mycroft said.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “I thought I might be allowed to sleep first though.”

“You can't be that desperate to sleep. You wouldn't take intravenous cocaine if you were,” Mycroft said.

“ _You_ wouldn't know,” Sherlock said. He slid his thumb into his mouth. Mycroft had the urge to rip it out, but he didn't. He thought he should push Sherlock out of bed, force him out of the flat, tell him to come back only when there were no recent signs of drug use on his person. He thought he should make it clear to Sherlock how angry he was. But he was too tired and too glad to have his brother here, pressed warmly against his body, sleepy and whole, so he just lay there, upset and exhausted, while Sherlock slept beside him.

He was sorry later that he hadn't taken a firmer line from the beginning.

*

Sherlock at twenty-one, asleep on his sofa. They'd had a fight three weeks ago, and he hadn't really expected to see him again so soon. Mycroft was angry in part because Sherlock could make him angry: he'd thought at twenty-seven he was beyond all that.

Three weeks ago Sherlock had looked thin and pale and had been curled in a ball on Mycroft's sofa, thumb in his mouth, watching Mycroft through glazed eyes. Mycroft has appraised him, thought about how unsavoury he looked in dirty jeans and uncut hair, and how childish he was. At twenty-one Mycroft had occupied a minor position in the civil service. At twenty-one Sherlock slept on whatever sofa he could find, and still hadn't completed his degree. He looked much the same now; Mycroft was glad to see him, but wished he wasn't. He wanted to care about Sherlock's career and how it could further his own, but he found he didn't care very much at all about Sherlock's career and that he cared a lot about Sherlock.

He'd made some grievous miscalculations all those years ago when he'd decided to bring Sherlock up. Admittedly he'd only been eight years old, but he shouldn't have made mistakes as severe as this.

Three weeks ago they'd fought about Sherlock's immaturity and Sherlock's perception that Mycroft was boring, fat and pompous. Mycroft, in a moment of anger he hadn't anticipated, had grabbed the disgusting, pathetic, filthy security blanket that Sherlock had been carrying around for so long, and had tossed it into the bin, on top of coffee grounds and sausage packets and fish bones. Sherlock hadn't looked at Mycroft. His expression had become unfocused, like it did when he was concentrating on something very hard, and he walked over to the bin, took out the now considerably more filthy blanket, stuffed it into his coat pocket and stalked out of the flat.

Mycroft looked at him now and wished Sherlock would be nine again and ask him for a microscope and a kidney. That Sherlock had made simple requests and had so much promise. This Sherlock was flat and grey and so hugely, indecently unhappy.

Sherlock shifted in his sleep. He had a new blanket, a blue one, grasped in his left hand. This clearly wasn't a habit he was willing to give up, and no tips from _Child Psychology: A Practical Guide_ were going to help. Or, quite possibly, he kept it up because he knew how much it frustrated Mycroft. Mycroft took a step closer to him, and Sherlock woke up, suddenly and immediately alert. He met Mycroft's eyes. He didn't look like he had recently ingested drugs.

“I'm going to be a detective,” Sherlock said, in almost exactly the same tone he had once said he was going to be a pirate.

“Are you,” Mycroft said, deliberately leaving off the question mark.

“Mmm,” Sherlock said. “I came over because I'm cold and it's always so warm here. You could probably keep orchids. That would be a suitable hobby for you.”

“I could give you a key, then you wouldn't have to pick the lock every time,” Mycroft said.

“You're no fun,” Sherlock said.

They spent the evening together. Sherlock read some policies from the department of defense and Mycroft made a salade nicoise. Sherlock got into bed with him while he was trying to fall asleep, complete with security blanket and dirty socks.

“We're too old for this now,” Mycroft told him. “We have been for years.”

“Boring,” Sherlock said, and nuzzled at Mycroft's neck with his cold nose.

“Don't you ever want to go out and have sex someone?” Mycroft said.

“Don't you?” Sherlock said. “You're here every night you're not working. I keep track.”

Mycroft sighed. “At least I know what it's like.”

“I don't need to know what it's like,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft put his hand on Sherlock's wrist, exploring the skin there. He didn't like to think of Sherlock in someone else's bed, someone else touching him so intimately. He didn't want anyone to touch Sherlock like that, not even himself. He said, “I'm glad you don't. I like you here.”

“I know you do,” Sherlock said.

*

He gave Sherlock little jobs now when he wasn't working with the police. Sometimes he orchestrated them so Sherlock wouldn't know they came from him, and sometimes he told Sherlock directly. It gave him an excuse to see him. He liked to know exactly what Sherlock was occupied with. It was such a pity he'd never agreed to work in the civil service. Then Mycroft would have known exactly where he was all the time and he wouldn't have to worry so much.

Still, these days he had a lot of surveillance teams at his disposable, and he could keep track of Sherlock reasonably easily. He liked to be updated at least once every two hours when Sherlock was dashing around London. It gave his day structure.

When Sherlock insisted on staying at home in his dreadful flat (“Why won't you live with me?” “Boring!”) he could pop in and visit him, and visit his vast, bleak unhappiness.

People, especially his brother, shouldn't be so obviously unhappy. It just wasn't done. Mycroft never allowed himself such feelings.

There was a security passcode to get into his flat now, and the lock was much more complex, but the lock was no match for Sherlock, and the code was Sherlock's birthday. An open invitation. More than that: a demand. _Come here, Sherlock Holmes._ Sherlock didn't come as often as he once had, and Mycroft found he was always listening for the familiar click of the lock being picked, that he could never quite settle unless his brother was with him.

That Tuesday, when he was very busy with reports from the Slovenian government, he heard the soothing, familiar sounds of Sherlock picking the lock, and then rapid beeps as Sherlock entered in his own birth date. He heard Sherlock's feet in the hall, and then Sherlock in the kitchen. He opened and closed the fridge and some cupboards, and got out a plate. He'd either just finished one of his cases or realised that he couldn't survive on cigarettes forever. The former option was the only likely one.

He sat down on the chair opposite Mycroft, arranging his legs in an unlikely position underneath him. He was eating dried fruit, dry cream crackers, various nuts and some crisps. He hadn't brought a drink. It made Mycroft's mouth feel uncomfortable just looking at it.

“Is this an experiment?” he said, glancing at the plate.

“This is dinner,” Sherlock said, biting into a cream cracker and somehow managing to get crumbs on both arms of the chair and the floor beneath the chair. Mycroft hated mess, but he knew Sherlock would be unbearable if he got the hoover out now.

“I suppose you solved one of your little crimes,” Mycroft said.

“A serial killer,” Sherlock said, “My favourite.”

“And spent the last two days running all over London,” Mycroft said. “I don't know how you can stand it.”

“Reminding you that you don't know how to have fun has become tedious,” Sherlock said. He ate the nuts rapidly, cramming them into his mouth.

He spent the night. Mycroft had a double bed now, of course, so Sherlock didn't need to press quite so close, but he did anyway. He rested his head on the same pillow as Mycroft and wrapped his arms around Mycroft's torso. It felt nice. He breathed noisily next to Mycroft's ear, and Mycroft descended rapidly and unexpectedly into sleep.

When Mycroft woke up, it was early morning, and Sherlock was on his laptop, going through secure files. He was sucking his thumb, the dreadful blanket at his elbow.

“You do it just to annoy me, don't you?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock said. “No, I assure you these files from the department of finance are fascinating.”

“No, your thumb. The blanket,” Mycroft said. He rubbed his eyes with the side of his wrist.

Sherlock took it out of his mouth. “Oh, I don't do that to annoy you,” Sherlock said. “I do that because I like it.”

Mycroft sighed. “How can you possibly like it? You're an adult.”

“Do you think I take drugs to annoy you?”

“No, I think you take drugs because you're immature and I was too lenient with you when you were in your teens,” Mycroft said.

“I do both because they make me feel better,” Sherlock said. He closed the laptop and slid down the bed, so his head was level with Mycroft's on the pillow. “And one of them doesn't harm me at all. I don't do many things to annoy you. It's just a side-effect.”

He curled closer to Mycroft, head fitting into the junction between Mycroft's neck and shoulder, arm resting on Mycroft's chest. Mycroft let him, and then held him onto him, pulling him close.

“I have been entirely too lenient with you,” Mycroft said.

“You worry too much,” Sherlock said. “You need to find some way to relax.” He slid his thumb back into his mouth. Mycroft sighed.

“Do you think you'd behave better if Mummy had paid more attention to you?” Mycroft said.

Sherlock laughed. “Don't be ridiculous. I'd be much worse.”

Mycroft thought this was probably true, but he was glad Sherlock had said so. He traced his fingers along Sherlock's spine, thinking about the new protocols from the ministry of defense and whether he should have another security team monitor Sherlock.

He didn't know what Sherlock was talking about: he felt perfectly relaxed here with him.

*

He realised he didn't have any control over Sherlock at all when Sherlock stopped using drugs. Mycroft had been trying to make him stop for years with absolutely no effect. He'd come up with reasonable approaches, unreasonable approaches, and a variety of clever schemes, but none of them had the slightest effect. Sherlock, it seemed, made the decision on his own, and managed to stop with no input at all from Mycroft.

He didn't like it. He'd thought he had at least some control over what Sherlock did, but it seemed Sherlock made entirely his own decisions, and the only control Mycroft could exert was by direct interference, the most unsubtle of approaches. It made him feel very nervous. He felt in control of most things, but not having any control over Sherlock was much worse than not having any control over the home secretary would have been.

He worried about him. Constantly.

One day in early January, Sherlock let himself into Mycroft's flat. He was carrying an orchid. He put it on top of Mycroft's mantlepiece. It had red flowers which matched Mycroft's red velvet curtains.

“Are you getting sentimental in your old age?” Mycroft said.

“No, someone gave it to me,” Sherlock said. “I can't think of any experiments I want to do on it, and I thought you'd get someone to look after it. Whoever cleans this place.”

Mycroft was sitting in his armchair, reading a soothing report on inland fisheries. Sherlock pushed it out of the way and settled himself on Mycroft's lap in its place. He rested his head on Mycroft's shoulder. He should have been too tall for Mycroft to find this comfortable, but somehow he still felt the same as always.

“You never ask,” Mycroft said, and he adjusted Sherlock so he could unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock let him. He took it off him so he could have a good look at Sherlock's arms. There were old, white marks, and newer, pinkish ones. But no fresh marks at all.

Mycroft didn't know what to say. He was glad, but it made it more clear to him than ever that Sherlock was entirely out of his control and that made him feel strange and bleak and made his fingers twitch. “Good,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock pressed his nose against Mycroft's neck. “Good,” he replied.


End file.
